


A Soldier's Honor

by AndyAO3



Series: Paladin Beefcake and the Tunnel Snake [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Blind Betrayal spoilers, Gen, Major Spoilers, Suicide mention, blind betrayal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6717292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAO3/pseuds/AndyAO3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crime is existence. The punishment is death. Prejudice is judge, jury, and executioner. And the Lone Wanderer is the only defense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Day the Sun Disappeared

**Author's Note:**

> I... may have been working on this all day.
> 
> Felt like I should start it while it's still fresh in my head. I'm working on a prequel that shows M7-97 backstory stoof and important things about Danse and what sort of relationship Ted has with him, but since I've planned that as just being a really long-ass oneshot and I haven't posted much lately I figured I should post this alternate start I've got for Danse's personal quest. 
> 
> This probably won't be one of my happier fics.

MacCready heard the vertibird before he saw it, his brows knitting together tightly as he scanned the sky from under the brim of his cap.

"Uh, folks," he called out, "we got company."

It was just him, Arcade, and Cass over at Taffington Boathouse; Harkness was doing super-secret sh--stuff with that Deacon guy, and Ted had taken Veronica with him to do... Something. Honestly, MacCready hadn't been paying all that much attention. He'd been draped over Arcade's lap because the doctor had taken the only good chair, and thus his time had been put to better use complaining that Arcade made a lousy cushion.

Hindsight being what it was, he had to admit that not paying attention - and therefore not knowing where the heck anyone who had any authority had gotten off to - probably wasn't the best idea. Gritting his teeth 'til they ached, he exhaled through his nose and waited until he was certain the vertibird was actually going to touch down nearby before he grabbed his gun and got up out of the designated bird-watching chair.

It paid to be prepared, even if he wasn't really supposed to shoot any of them. Worst case scenario, he could call it self-defense.

Cass popped her head out the boathouse's front door just as the vertibird was landing, frowning; her hair was damp, curling strands falling in front of her face. Her jumpsuit was unzipped to her waist; MacCready looked away quickly before she could accuse him of staring down her bra. It didn't take much of a leap of logic to guess that Arcade had replaced her in the boathouse's one working shower, considering the doctor had called dibs on the hot water for whenever she was finished with it. Which meant it was just the two of them dealing with the Brotherhood.

"For chrissakes'," she grumbled. "We got a fuckin' radio. Couldn't they call ahead just once?"

"Nah, can't do that. Then they might accidentally give the impression that they actually give a crap." Now that she was with him, though, MacCready felt better about lowering his gun. He doubted they could get away with being trigger happy if Cass decided to wave her dogtags around. "Whaddya think they want?"

Cass heaved a sigh as she yanked her jumpsuit the rest of the way up over her arms and zipped it. "Who the fuck knows, kid," she said.

A hundred yards off, the vertibird's blades were slowing down. A couple of goons in power armor hopped out of it, looking big and important. If MacCready remembered his ranks right, the paint jobs on their armor indicated that they were a Knight and a Paladin. A Lancer and a Scribe remained in the 'bird, completing the Self-Righteous Quartet.

Neither the Knight nor the Paladin took off their helmets on approach. "Lancer Cassidy," the Paladin said with a respectful nod; the voice that came through the helmet was feminine, with a drawl that reminded MacCready of the folks out in the swamps by Point Lookout. "Is Sentinel Davies here?"

"Sorry, Richter. Just missed 'im." Cass hooked her thumbs into her belt loops and shifted her weight onto the heels of her feet, lifting the toes of her boots off the ground. "If you want, y'might-could leave a message. I'm sure he'll be back."

"I think it'd be best if we stuck around to speak with him, Lancer. Maxson's orders were pretty clear."

"What's this about, Richter?"

The Paladin bowed her head a little. "C'mon, Cassidy. You know I'd tell you if I could." The Knight next to her stiffened and made a throat-clearing sound; Paladin Richter straightened back out immediately.

"Well if you're okay with tellin' Teddy, then it ain't gonna stay a secret," Cass said. "Might as well say it. Who knows, maybe I can help."

"In front of a civilian?"

"MacCready's with us. Teddy's considering him as Initiate material." A boldfaced lie if MacCready had ever heard one, but the Paladin didn't need to know that. Besides, at least Cass was trying to include him instead of treating him like a kid who'd eat Abraxo if unsupervised.

Richter seemed to consider for a moment before nodding. "Alright, if you're sure. Maxson wants to know if the Sentinel's made any progress on decrypting those files he got from that insider Institute source. He says he can only pretend Davies doesn't have anything for so long before he'll be forced to demand results."

MacCready blinked. "Wait, those holotapes Ted was working on?" He'd seen the little guy bent over the terminal upstairs, switching holotapes in and out and typing away like crazy with his pip-boy plugged into the terminal.

Cass went rigid next to him as the Paladin perked up. "Got something for us, civilian?"

"Yeah, they're upstairs. Pretty sure he said something about being done with 'em." He grinned at her. "I can go get 'em for you; would that be enough to get your boss off your ass about it?" And therefore get the goons to leave them alone for a while.

"It might be," the Paladin said.

"Great, alright. I'll grab 'em and then everyone can get out of everyone else's hair." That was simple enough. Couldn't beat them, couldn't bribe them, might as well appease them. MacCready was pretty sure all the data on the holotapes was backed up on that terminal upstairs anyways, so it wasn't like it was a loss. And the Institute were definitely the bad guys, so more firepower against them couldn't hurt. Enemy of their enemy and all that crap.

He had no idea why Cass was giving him such a funny look.

\---

Hours later, when Ted and Veronica finally got back, MacCready was still fairly pleased with himself. Arcade was on watch by then, with the merc having ducked back inside for some food and a moment to himself to read comics. Cass had gone quiet in the intervening hours, having moved to the back porch to do a bit of fishing (with grenades).

So the first indication MacCready had that they'd returned was when he heard Arcade greet them outside. "You're back," the doctor noted. "Any luck?"

"Great luck, actually. Found an old drive-in theater with plenty of busted cars to scrap." Ted sounded vaguely out of breath through his helmet's audio feed.

Veronica spoke next. "Figured it'd be better to wait for Six to get back before we hauled any of it back here though, seeing as he's the heavy lifter." She looked up and waved when MacCready poked his head out. "Hey, RJ. Wanna help us lug scrap metal and fiberglass back and forth?"

"Heck no. I'm not getting paid enough for that kinda crap."

"At this point are you even getting paid at all?" she wondered.

"Nope. And that's kinda the point." MacCready tipped his hat to Ted in a gesture of mock-respect. "Hey, loser."

Ted pulled off his helmet to grin back, hair sticking up in multiple gravity-defying directions. "Hey, nerd," he replied. "Managed to not give Arcade a heart attack yet, huh?"

"Not for lack of trying," Arcade remarked. "By the way, the Brotherhood came by earlier. They wanted to see how your decryption was progressing."

"Did you tell them that they'd get it when they get it and to kindly fuck off?"

MacCready chimed in then. "Nah, I just grabbed the tapes from your table upstairs," he said.

Ted froze. His head turned slowly towards the merc, his expression going weirdly unreadable. "The tapes," he repeated.

"Well, yeah." The heck was that look for? It was creepy to see Ted go so friggin' cold. "Didn't seem like they were gonna leave anytime soon otherwise, and I figured you guys didn't want a bunch of goons snooping around."

"But you saw the labels, right?" Ted prompted. "You handed them the right one?"

"What labels? I just gave 'em the ones I found on your desk."

In an instant, Ted was in motion. It was crazy how fast the guy moved under all that armor, crazier still how MacCready couldn't even manage to dodge before metal fingers closed around his throat; there was a fraction of a section of breathlessness, of the feeling of being weightless and terrifyingly breakable in Ted's grip before his back was slammed into the boathouse's vinyl paneling, forcing a choked gasp out of him.

But the craziest thing of all was the look in Ted's eyes, crazy with rage and hurt, unflinching as MacCready's hands flew up to try and pry Ted's hand away from his throat.

"Teddy, what the hell!" Veronica protested, as Arcade pushed himself sharply to his feet; Ted ignored both of them.

"You son of a bitch," Ted hissed. "You dumb, useless little fuck."

"The heck is wrong with you--?" MacCready managed to get out, wheezing.

Ted's expression pulled into a snarl. For a second, his grip tightened; MacCready's head swam from the lack of air.

Arcade put his hand on the shoulder of Ted's power armor. "Let him go, Ted," the doctor said firmly. "You'll crush his windpipe." Not calling him out on being a freaking lunatic. Not asking what the hell was going on. MacCready resolved to tell Arcade that he was sleeping on the couch later, after getting out of this.

But Arcade's words must have gotten through to Ted somehow, because he let MacCready go; the merc fell to the porch in a heap, clutching at his throat and wheezing as he tried to gulp in air. Ted didn't move to help him back up. Arcade did. Okay, so maybe he wouldn't be banished to the couch.

"I don't see-- how me giving them the tapes is a-- a problem," MacCready said between breaths. He glared at Ted, and Ted glared right back.

It still looked like Ted wanted to kill him. Just, not quite as much as before. "Those tapes didn't just have intel about Institute inner workings," he said. "The data from the Institute included a list of escaped and missing synths. Shit that the Railroad needs to know, but the Brotherhood doesn't."

"So what? It isn't the Brotherhood's problem."

"You fucking dumbass," Ted sneered. "One of those escaped synths _joined_ the Brotherhood. Made a name for himself, got to the point where he was respected, trusted--" He cut himself off with a growl, jerking his gaze away from MacCready to glare at one of the porch's support banisters instead. "Christ, there's no fixing this now. I-- I gotta go."

He turned to leave, moving to put his helmet on; Veronica blinked at him. "Wait, you're going alone?"

"I have to," he said. "I can't let anyone else take the blame for this. I'm the only one who has the status to be able to take that kind of hit."

"But--" she started to say, but stopped herself. The words seemed to catch in her throat, and it took her a second to think of something to replace them. "But who's the synth?"

"Danse," Ted replied. Then the helmet went back on, and he was gone.

 


	2. Dissident's Creed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS POSSIBLY ONE OF THE FASTEST CHAPTERS I'VE EVER GOTTEN OUT.

Ted made sure he was out of sight of the boathouse before he popped his flare gun to signal a vertibird; it wasn't necessary, but he figured his paranoia was justifiable by that point.

Shit. _Shit_. It was his fault. If they hadn't headed west - if he hadn't been so hellbent on keeping so many goddamn promises, if he hadn't dragged Hark with him - then none of this shit would've happened. They could've kept Danse out of the Brotherhood, or kept Sarah Lyons alive, or hell, kept Maxson on a path that didn't put Danse in danger. Something, anything! Anything more workable than the situation he found himself in right then.

The trouble with being a chessmaster was that sometimes you got fucked over by a novice. He hadn't told MacCready about the tapes because the little shit didn't much care for synths, and it'd seemed like too much of a headache to have to deal with it. But Cass and Arcade-- shit, they should've said something to stop him. Arcade definitely could've. Why hadn't he? Had he just not been there?

God, what a mess.

It was a few minutes before the vertibird touched down, and those few minutes gave Ted time to step out of his power armor and check his pip-boy. His fingers shook as he tapped out a message, chewing his lip until it hurt.

> user_td2258: wont be home for dinner tonight  
> user_td2258: blame creeds

That second message was petty, but it felt good to type out. Not a half a minute later, he got a response.

> user_a3-21: What happened?

> user_td2258: its danse  
> user_td2258: BOS knows

> user_a3-21: Shit.

"Yeah, that about sums it up," Ted mumbled.

> user_td2258: ill handle it. just do your RR thing  
> user_td2258: i wont let them take him without a fight  
> user_td2258: wont let him give up either

> user_a3-21: I know.  
> user_a3-21: Just be careful, all right?

> user_td2258: will do  
> user_td2258: love you

> user_a3-21: Love you too.

The vertibird touched down as that last message came through; Ted would be lying if he said that he didn't wait for it before he got back into his power armor and onto the 'bird.

"Where to, sir?" the pilot asked as he climbed aboard.

"To the Prydwen," he answered. "I wouldn't be surprised if Arthur's just itching for a chat right about now."

"Sir?"

Right, so the news hadn't gotten around yet. Good. "Don't worry about it," he assured. The pilot seemed to take him at his word, and away they went.

\---

As always, the Prydwen was abuzz with activity. Even when she was only idling, she hummed with the sound of her engines, her crew, her myriad inner workings. Ted had wondered once if the constant low background noise could make subliminal messages and social conditioning easier, but that had been only a fleeting thought; storming through the halls then, he felt as if the ship was closing in around him, stifling him, the background noise seeming to roar in his ears through the audio pickup in his helmet.

Clipped interrogation of a passing scribe told him that Maxson was in his usual place on the command deck, overseeing the Commonwealth. Thus it was the command deck that he went for, because the only one whose opinion he needed to sway was Arthur Maxson.

Not bothering with any kind of protocol, Ted threw his helmet down onto a nearby table when he got to Maxson's part of the deck; the noise didn't so much as startle the Elder, who was fiddling idly with three holotapes in one hand.

"Arthur," Ted began, "I know what this looks like--"

"Do you?" the Elder mused. "Because to me it looks like high treason."

Ted let out a slow breath in an attempt to calm himself as his heartrate kicked into high gear. "To you, maybe, but if you'd just get your head out of your ass--"

"Very clever of you," Arthur said, cutting him off. "Three tapes, three factions. I suppose a fourth for the Institute would be redundant, wouldn't it?"

"I hate the Institute as much as you do."

"Yet you'd keep their creations well out of the Brotherhood's reach?" Arthur whipped around; his eyes were red-rimmed and narrowed, gleaming shards of blue under dark brows. "Somehow I doubt we have the same definition of 'hate'."

"Arthur, listen to me," Ted pleaded. "The synths aren't your enemy. The men behind them are. Isn't that what the Brotherhood is about-- technology? Understanding and utilizing it? Keeping it out of the hands of people who would misuse it?"

Maxson's features twisted into a sneer. "Don't lecture _me_ on what the Brotherhood of Steel's purpose is, Sentinel!" he snapped. "You who would have had me _utilize_ a synth for the sake of twisting my loyalties."

Ted grit his teeth. It was a sick, godawful way of putting it, but he couldn't deny it. Not without making it sound like he was making excuses. "I wanted you to understand that they're people," he said.

"They are _machines_ , Theodore!" Maxson flung his arm out with such an emphatic gesture that the holotapes went flying, clattering to the floor. "People are flesh and blood. They are born, they live, they die. Danse is a _thing!_ It was not born, it will never die of natural causes, it was never alive to begin with!"

"He's a fucking person, Arthur. They're all people-- every one of them. Every last synth you'd have thrown to the wolves. What the hell right do we have to say what they are and aren't capable of feeling?"

"It doesn't matter, because those feelings aren't real! None of it is! It's all a fabrication, a perversion of science, a Pandora's box that should never have been opened! Neither the Institute nor their synths can be allowed to exist, and as such, that _thing_ you're trying to protect cannot be allowed to exist either!"

Everything went quiet for a while after that, with the two of them glaring across the room at each other. Neither had won the other over. Their little game of chess was at a stalemate.

After some time, Maxson's breathing evened out and he turned back towards the windows, tucking his hands behind his back at a stiff approximation of parade rest. "I am willing to forgive you, Theodore," he said, "but only in an official capacity. Execute Danse, and I will let you keep your rank and status within the Brotherhood of Steel. Beyond that, I will make you no promises."

Danse's life, or Ted's rank. "I think you know what I'll say to an offer like that."

"And you know that if you say it, I would be well within my rights to have you shot," Maxson replied. Then he sighed and added, "--please don't assume that this is an easy call for me to make."

Ted snorted, pivoting on his heel and marching out. "Sure it isn't."

Just in case the point wasn't made clearly enough, he left his power armor and holotags behind in his quarters before he got off the airship. He'd apologize to Arcade for leaving the heirloom set of X-01 on the boat later.

Right then, he had to get to Danse before Arthur's goons did.

 


	3. No Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS DEPRESSIVE, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS FROM DANSE.** I figure I should say something, even though since it's Blind Betrayal that shit's kinda... well, expected. Holy shit he's a wreck though. Poor baby. He needs so many hugs.
> 
> Also, his first name? Totally Ghostchibi's idea. Go poke their work. They're an excellent writer and you should read everything they post.

The bunker was dirty, and dark, and quiet. The lighting was poor, and the air filtration wasn't on, so the dust hung in the air in lazily drifting little motes that were easily disturbed by Danse's breath. Slow, steady breaths-- in, and out. In, and out.

He leaned back heavily in an ancient office chair that creaked under his weight, pressing his palms into his eyelids until he saw stars. Even those breaths were manufactured, stolen. Guilt clawed at him as he took them, inhaling precious air that was meant for living things, not machines. But when he'd tried to stop breathing, his autonomic bodily processes had taken over and forced him to after a while. He hated that he'd been programmed with those, but he had to admit to himself that it made sense for even a replicated body to have self-preservation instincts.

Not real. Nothing about him was real. 'Paladin Danse' was a work of fiction. It didn't matter how real it felt to him, because it simply wasn't. He couldn't even be sure where he began and ended, what parts of his life were his and what parts weren't. The parts that felt the most human were probably just there to convince people of his humanity.

Even then, knowing what he was, he felt overstimulated and hypersensitive. His Brotherhood uniform felt too tight, constricting his chest, his arms, his neck. It even felt like his boots and his gloves were cutting off circulation, though he knew full well that they weren't. Discipline was the only thing keeping him from ripping everything off and letting the open, musty air settle over his skin. Discipline, and the knowledge that doing so would do little good under the circumstances. Even if he stripped down to nothing, he'd still be able to feel the air, thick and cool down in the depths of the bunker.

His temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache, but he willed himself to ignore it, just as he ignored the twitch of a muscle in his leg that would start him tapping his foot. A thousand tiny human things about himself he'd taught himself to overcome were coming back to him, each a reminder of what he was. All of them were programmed, _not real_. Quirks meant to imitate humanity without understanding the nuances.

Of course, he'd never understood the nuances. Maybe that, too, should have been a hint.

He knew he should eat, but he didn't want to. The same applied to staying hydrated, or getting a bit of sleep. He wasn't even sure if he needed any of it; his body responded to such urges, nagging at him to take care of himself, but that could very well be his programmed-in humanity talking. Even if he were to pass out from hunger or exhaustion - eventualities which were quite a ways off yet, admittedly - it was likely that even that was unnecessary fluff for a synth.

Then he heard it. A crash, clanging, plasma weapon fire. One of his turrets beeping upon activation, then firing, then a heavy impact and a distress-beep that eventually shut off. A voice, not Maxson's. Arthur's voice carried too well, distinct even through the walls of the Citadel if he was having an argument. This voice was indistinct through the concrete and rebar that seperated them, smaller and more reedy.

Danse - _M7-97_ , he reminded himself, even if the designation made bile rise in his throat - stood up from his chair just as the last door to where he was opened. Dust swirled in the air as it was disturbed. His visitor sneezed explosively, then snuffled.

"Fucking hell, Danse," that voice said, nasal and thick with congestion. "Had to go and pick the most moldy-ass bunker you could find, didn't you?"

Danse felt himself relax. No, not relax-- he slumped, all the fight leaving him. "Sentinel," he greeted, hollow. Of course Arthur would send a friend. Someone both of them knew.

Sentinel Davies kicked the door shut behind him, rubbing his bomber jacket's sleeve against his nose. He was thin and small, always had been. There was blood dripping down his cheek where a turret had probably grazed him. He was wearing his uniform, but not his power armor; the dogtags that usually hung around his neck were also nowhere to be seen.

Odd. But it didn't change anything. "I assume Arthur sent you here to kill me," Danse said.

"Yeah, something like that. I'm not gonna do it, but he wanted me to. Damn near turned purple." Davies grinned as Danse's heart sank. "It's fine."

"It isn't 'fine'," Danse insisted. "I'm a synth. A machine. I'm everything the Brotherhood hates and more. Please--"

He was stopped by two gloved fingers being pressed to his lips, quieting him. The Sentinel's colorless eyes were tired, but kind. "Shhh, no rhetoric," Davies admonished gently. "I'm not gonna kill you, Mickey, it's okay."

Mickey. Mikhail. No one used Danse's first name but a select few. It wasn't relevant. Davies hadn't even been free with it in years, not-- not since _before_. Before Danse was Brotherhood, not too long after the purifier. But it wasn't real, was it? None of anything about Danse was real. And Davies had to know that, if he'd talked to Arthur and been ordered to kill Danse. So why was he acting like someone who didn't know, didn't care? Why was he still treating Danse like a person?

Something of Danse's thoughts must have shown in his expression; Davies blinked at him for a second as if startled, and then thin arms were winding around his neck, pulling him down into an awkward hug. "Hey, no, it's okay. I gotcha, buddy. You're fine."

Danse's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I'm not human," he said, keeping his voice as even as he could. "Why are you doing this?"

The Sentinel drew back enough to smirk, but there was something sad about it. Something deeper, something that made Danse's brows draw together tightly. Why? Why was Davies so conflicted, if not about his duty to the Brotherhood? If he was so certain that Danse should live, then for what reason would he be upset by the question of _why_ Danse should live?

"Sentinel?" Danse prodded, unsure.

Davies sucked in a breath before flashing him a smile. Those arms fell away, hands jamming themselves into the pockets of the Sentinel's jacket. "You may wanna sit down for this," he said.

\---

It turned out that Davies was right about Danse being better off sitting down. By the time the former Paladin was able to get out anything resembling speech, he was shaking.

"You knew," he whispered. "All this time, and you didn't--"

"The whole point was so you could have a life free of the Institute," Davies said. Hands tucked behind his back, leaned against an adjacent wall. There was sorrow in his voice. "You weren't supposed to even know they existed."

"And what was that going to accomplish? How can I fight an enemy I don't even know about?" Danse wrung his hands. "How much valuable intel was lost when I was mind-wiped?"

"No more than what Harkness already had."

"Harkness?" Davies' husband? Danse looked up as a realization dawned on him. "You married a _synth_?"

"Courser," the Sentinel added, offering another dorky grin. "Ain't that a treat?"

"Are you aware of how many ways the things you've done could be considered high treason against the Brotherhood?"

Davies snorted. "Fuck the Brotherhood. I didn't come along for them."

"Then why? Why come at all? Why act like you care?"

"Oh, I care," Davies said. "Just not about the Brotherhood. I care about you, I care about Veronica and Cass - Scribe Santangelo and Lancer Cassidy to you -"

"I know who they are."

"- I care about Arthur, I care about the squires, I care about Haylen and Ingram and Quinlan's cat that makes me sneeze, I care about the scribes. But the Brotherhood? Fuck it."

"But they _are_ the Brotherhood. You can't have the Brotherhood without its people."

"Ahh, but you can have the people without the Brotherhood, and that's what counts." Davies offered another of his stupid grins, and the muscles in Danse's hands flexed and tightened as he resisted the urge to punch the Sentinel right in the jaw. "But in all seriousness, Danse, I came here for you and Harkness."

"Why? Why _me_?"

"Because I wanted to prevent this exact situation from happening. Because it's my fault you're in it in the first place. It was my idea to go west, and as a result we... Well, we kinda abandoned you. _I_ abandoned you. I'm sorry."

Danse bowed his head, feeling his chest tighten. He tried to ignore it; he wasn't a wasteland child with no parents. He never had been. He'd never even been a child at all. Hearing things like that shouldn't leave him aching for what he didn't have when he'd never had a right to have it to begin with. But it did.

"God, you were so proud," Davies continued. "All shiny and tall in your brand new set of Paladin T-60. You honestly think me or Harkness was gonna take that from you? Hell no, not after Cutler. I'd try to change the whole damn Brotherhood of Steel around you before I'd ever try to tell you that you were wrong to be optimistic about them."

"Did it never strike you as cruel?"

"Cruel of the Brotherhood, maybe. Me, I'm just neglectful. Still pretty shitty and utterly preventable, even if bringing you west would've been a hard idea to swing by you when you didn't know what you were or why we were asking you to leave your new home. Hard, but not impossible. I could've done it. I didn't. Again, my fault."

Danse frowned deeply. "If you'd just told me--"

"Again, it'd defeat the purpose. By the time it became relevant, you were in a place where if you knew, you'd turn yourself in. Best course of action after that was to keep everyone in the dark." Davies looked pained. "You asked to forget, Mikhail. You wanted to get a fresh start. I did what I could to make sure you were safe, but it wasn't enough. I'm sorry."

Sorry. Right. Because being sorry would fix things. Danse huffed a faint laugh, shaking his head. No, there was no fixing things. And there was barely any point in living either, at least not for him. Everything he'd tried to make of himself was gone for good, lie or not. What else was there for him? Living the rest of his life in hiding? Forgetting all over again? Even if he managed that, did he deserve any of it?

He was a synth. A product of the Institute. A monster, a thing. His existence was a sin.

"You haven't once tried to tell me I was human," Danse said. "But you're not using my synth designation either. You seem to know better than anyone what I am, yet you use my human name. Why, when you accept that I'm a machine?"

Davies chuckled. "What, you think I'm gonna deadname you?"

And Danse was stunned into silence.

 


	4. All is One, One is All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooboy.
> 
> Longest chapter of this one yet!

For some time, Davies remained with Danse in the bunker. He found another upended chair and brought it with him down the hall to where Danse was so he could take a seat across from the former paladin, just to start playing with something or other on his pip-boy. He was frowning, chewing his lip, making the occasional frustrated noise. He even smacked the little computer at one point.

It reminded Danse of just how bad of a soldier Davies was. Undisciplined, unrefined. So far removed from anything by-the-book that the book might as well be used for kindling. It wasn't even out of ignorance; Davies clearly knew procedure, and demonstrated a mastery of it when he wanted. But if he didn't want to be respectful, he wouldn't be. The Brotherhood had been aware of that for years, having only held off from discharging him for fear that it might cause a mutiny if they did.

That he'd risk being charged with treason for the sake of a single man - one who wasn't even human! - said a lot about what he thought of the people who would be judging him. Danse hadn't realized that that Davies' utter disdain for the Brotherhood went that deep.

Even though Danse wasn't Brotherhood anymore, it felt like betrayal. To know that even with his rank, even with how good a person he always tried to be, Davies had never had the Brotherhood's best interests at heart. The thing Danse had dedicated his life to? Davies would gladly see it burn. And that? That hurt. In spite of Danse not having any right to feel anything about it at all.

Danse said nothing, however. He didn't want to appear ungrateful.

"Ah, shit," Davies muttered. "Too far down to get a signal. Too much damn concrete in the way."

"Why do you need to get a signal?"

"I was gonna message some folks. Get 'em to bring your meds, maybe bring something to eat."

Danse faltered for a moment. His... Oh. Davies remembered. "I have four days until my next dose," he said. "But as for both my treatment and the idea of having to eat regularly, it stands to reason that if I'm a synth, I shouldn't need those things."

"Bullshit. You still get faint if you go long enough without food or sleep, and the treatment's been a thing almost as long as I've known you. Don't give me that crap." Davies leaned back in his seat, stretching lazily with a series of cracks and pops from his joints. "Besides, might do you some good to meet another synth. One who's been at this a while, y'know? I figure it might help you get some perspective."

"You mean your husband," Danse guessed. Davies' answer was a smirk, which was as good an affirmative as any, coming from him. "How can you you be so calm about this? The more you say, the more treasonous your logic gets."

"Sure does from a Brotherhood perspective, but what the hell else am I gonna do? Just knowing that one synth existed that I hadn't told them about immediately had Arthur pitching a fit." Davies' arms folded in front of his chest as he frowned sternly at Danse. "And if I try to get them to show any kind of respect to synths, it'll create a schism a mile wide. Arthur's right about one thing; the Brotherhood can't fight the Institute properly if it's divided. Particularly when the divide would follow the lines I think it might."

"So the Brotherhood is just a tool to you," Danse said, low and quiet. "You do realize that by saying you care for synths, some might interpret that as saying you're in support of the Institute and its values?" And the former Paladin was startled to realize as he said it that he wasn't sure whether he would be included in that number or not.

"Never. I'd burn the Institute to the fucking ground. But that's not the point."

"Then what would you say the point of this argument is?"

"Easy. The Brotherhood's lines of loyalty are a matter of classism."

Danse frowned hard. "But there is no classism in the Brotherhood."

"Bull. Shit. Why don't Scribes get power armor on field missions if they're so mission-critical? Why do the squires born into the Brotherhood's ranks overwhelmingly get turned into meathead soldiers, who then are overwhelmingly more likely to get promotions to leadership positions? Why is it that the eastern branch's Elder is a twenty year old? Classism, nepotism, favoring brawn and charisma over skill and intellect. Look at the Lancers, hell. You can't move troops without Lancers, yet being a Lancer requires a personality that automatically disqualifies them from leadership by Brotherhood standards."

"A soldier knows best how to utilize and fully understand the needs of his fellow soldiers," Danse shot back, "and would be the least likely to use his men as cannon fodder. Empathy is required for leadership, otherwise a leader loses sight of the parts that make up the whole and jeapordizes the entire mission by leaning too hard on men who can't take it."

"Empathy for the soldiers, or empathy for the people on the other end of the rifle barrels?" Davies sighed and shook his head. "No. You're still not listening, man. What I'm saying is that the people Maxson is the most disconnected from are the people that the Brotherhood leans on the most. If I were to start a fight over this, it'd cut out the Brotherhood's backbone. Everything Arthur has would fall apart. I'm not willing to do that yet. Not to him, not to them."

" _Yet_ ," Danse echoed bitterly.

Davies nodded, looking grim. "Yet," he agreed. "I'd do it if I had to, Mikhail. It'd be a last resort, but I'd do it."

"And you'd be fine with letting children and noncombatants on the Prydwen get caught in the crossfire."

"They're the ones I'd be hoping to save by cutting them away from the Brotherhood in the first place."

Danse went quiet for a while. He wasn't convinced, nor did he think he ever could be. There would be casualties, and those casualties would be unacceptable. The Brotherhood was too closely tied to itself, a tightly-woven fabric of individual threads that made up the whole. Tugging on a loose end would always unravel more than had been anticipated. And Danse was a loose thread; he couldn't deny it, even to himself. The respect of his peers that had once made him swell with pride, now only left the sickening weight of dread to settle in his gut.

He would be one of the reasons Davies used to tear the Brotherhood apart. The fact of his existence would be used to raze everything he held dear. It wouldn't even matter if he lived or died, because as an exile, he would be a martyr either way. A figurehead in a cause that went against all that he stood for.

All because he had been made, not born.

"Fuck, I'm going outside," Davies said after some time, standing up from his seat. "Maybe I can get a signal out there. You coming, or d'you wanna stay down here?"

"I'll accompany you." Danse's voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. He felt empty, tired, useless. There wouldn't even be a point to expediting his own demise anymore, would there?

In fact, he could see little point to doing anything at all.

\---

The air aboveground was fetid and damp, and Danse longed for his helmet's filters as he breathed it in. Twilight and radiation gave the landscape an unearthly glow. It was late. Later than Danse had realized. Food would probably be a good idea, if he could bring himself to scrounge anything up at all or even care.

Davies stretched in the dying light of day and sighed, clearing his throat loudly twice. Then he leaned against the bunker's outer wall and got to work sending out his messages. "You alright with Arcade? Figure I should ask before I ask Hark to bring him along."

The name rang a bell. "The cultist doctor?" Danse asked.

"Uh, sure. Let's go with that. Yeah." Davies pursed his lips. "Yes or no?"

"If there's no alternative." Danse had heard about the Followers of the Apocalypse. Well-intentioned, but not the least bit sensible. Gannon, however, had helped the Brotherhood in the past. Mostly because Davies happened to be helping the Brotherhood at the time, and Gannon had helped Davies.

Once, they had tried to recruit the doctor to their cause. Gannon declined, and Davies threatened a mutiny when the Brotherhood tried to pursue the matter further. On reflection, Danse could almost see a vague pattern.

"Are you finished?" Danse asked after a while. "I would prefer it if we went back inside." He felt naked without his power armor, like a part of him was missing. Being so exposed set his teeth on edge. The bunker at least provided some buffer against the outside world.

Davies shook his head, not looking up from his pip-boy. "Just a minute," he said. "Gonna see if I can get ahold of Butchie while I'm at it."

"'Butchie'?" Danse repeated.

The Sentinel looked up sharply, giving him a frown. What? What was wrong? Was this someone that Danse was supposed to know? "Yeah, uh." Davies swallowed visibly as he returned to his pip-boy. "Friend of mine, from back in DC. Butch Deloria? You've met him, he was in Rivet City."

Danse's nose crinkled in distaste. "The barber?" He remembered, vaguely. A mouthy greaser with a bad attitude and worse hair. Aloof and difficult to work with, even by Danse's standards.

"Yeah, him." Davies seemed relieved by Danse's recognition. "He came north too, just not on the Prydwen. Followed a couple weeks behind us by caravan."

"Why?"

"Ehhh, reasons."

That was hardly a satisfactory answer, but Danse doubted he was going to get anything more coherent. When Davies wanted to be stubborn, he could be _very_ stubborn. The Brotherhood of Steel knew that all too well, and so did Danse.

Minutes passed. Birds and wind and the occasional sound of gunfire far-off in the distance created a mess of background noise that Danse found almost deafening after a time, and he folded his arms to keep from fidgeting. Without conversation to distract him, or power armor to protect him, he was reminded of how small he was. How vast and terrifying and intense the world could be to his senses.

He was the first one to hear the vertibird, jerking out of his thoughts and sucking in a sharp, startled breath. It took him only a few seconds to realize that the sound was getting louder. "Davies," he breathed.

"I hear it," the Sentinel replied. When Danse turned to look, the smaller man was gnawing on his lip with a deep frown; he made sure to finish typing whatever it was before he let his pip-boy wielding arm fall back to his side. "Do they know about this bunker?"

"They shouldn't. Only you and Haylen--" Something in Danse's chest clenched tight. Haylen. Shit.

From his expression, Davies' thoughts seemed to follow along the same lines. "She's strong. She'll be fine."

"That strength is what concerns me at this point," Danse said. The vertibird was in view then, swinging around for a landing. It was too dark, and the glare from the bunker's spotlights too bright, for Danse to make out who might be on it.

It had barely touched down when a broad, powerful figure stepped out of it, the tails of a long coat caught in the artificial gale kicked up by the 'bird itself. As the figure approached, the spotlights focused and started blaring angrily at the intruder. But by then, Danse didn't need them to know who it was.

"Arthur," he whispered, pained.

"Is there a reason you've ignored your orders, Sentinel?" the Elder called out, head held high and arms tucked behind his back. He stopped just far enough up the hill in front of the bunker's entrance that he was just a few inches higher than eye level with Danse; he looked cold, inscrutable, almost cruel. Danse knew that was a lie. Arthur only ever went cold when he was seething.

Davies tipped his chin up in defiance, stepping forward. Straightening his posture and leveling a look at Arthur that had all the makings of a challenge. "They were shitty orders," he replied.

"I see." Arthur stared at Danse for a long moment before his attention returned to the defiant Sentinel. "You leave me in a very difficult position, you know."

"It's only a difficult position if you're a brainwashed, nepotism-addled shitheel. I mean, to me it seems pretty fucking easy, but y'know." Davies shrugged. "To each their own. Even if their own is a hyper-masculine power fantasy complete with delusions of grandeur."

Danse was mortified, but Arthur merely gave the Sentinel a bland look. "Gone over that in a mirror, have you?"

"Nah. You're the one that does that, Arty." Davies winked, smirking to himself. "But let's cut the bullshit and get to the point, shall we? What does baby Maxson want this time?"

Arthur was unfazed. "You have a choice, Sentinel," he said. From within his jacket he drew a snubnosed magnum pistol, and began calmly loading it round-by-round. "You can kill this... This _thing_ , right here and now. All transgressions will be forgiven, and your status in the Brotherhood will be restored."

Davies lifted an eyebrow. "Or...?"

"Or, I'll do it for you." Arthur smiled. A chilling, joyless thing.

"Well that's not gonna work," Davies said, feigning a thoughtful look. "Here's a better idea. How about you fuck off and leave Danse alone."

Arthur clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "That was never an option, Sentinel. From the moment you decided to hide your knowledge of this _thing_ from us, you must have known that it would come to this."

"Nah. See, I was hoping that even if I couldn't avoid it, that maybe I could change your mind. Then, hopefully, everybody would come out of this validated and no one would get hurt."

"How optimistic of you," Arthur deadpanned.

"Yeah, well. You know me. Always an optimist." Davies grinned. "Point is, you're not getting Danse."

This wasn't working. Worse still, Davies was provoking Arthur. Knowingly. To Danse, that could only end in two ways: the first being that Davies would end up dead, along with Danse himself, and the second being that Arthur would attack and Davies would take the excuse to kill him and effectively start a war with the entire Brotherhood of Steel. Neither the Brotherhood nor the Commonwealth would do well with either option. And frankly, Danse didn't want to see those things happening, either.

It was unworkable. There was no solution, save for one.

Danse took a deep, steadying breath and took a step closer to Maxson. "I'm sorry, Davies," he said, "but I see no other option."

"Oh, good." Arthur took aim with the pistol, his expression unreadable.

"The fuck--?" It shouldn't have been surprising that Davies bounded forward, getting between Danse and Arthur, facing Danse directly so that he could glare at the former Paladin. "What the hell are you doing?"

"It's doing the right thing," Arthur said. "Out of the way, Sentinel."

"Please," Danse murmured. "You tried. It's all right."

"No. Fuck no. I'm not letting you just give yourself up, you hear me?" Danse could swear the Sentinel's eyes were wet as he whipped around to snarl at Arthur. He held his arms out, spread wide in front of Danse. Covering as much as he could given his size. He was so small in comparison that it seemed pointless, but the display made something catch in Danse's chest nonetheless.

Meanwhile, Arthur had stiffened. His aim wavered, nigh-imperceptible. "I don't want to have to kill you as well. Stand down."

"Tough," Davies said. He didn't budge. "If you want Danse, you'll have to get through me."

Arthur's features drew into a tight frown. His hand shook visibly. "Don't make me do this, Theodore," he said. Quieter, less sure.

"You're the one with the firearm," Davies reminded him.

Seconds ticked by, Danse's heartbeat hammering away in his ears as the silent stalemate dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. No one moved. Danse thought it felt like the entire world had gone still, terror-fueled adrenaline singing in his veins.

And _then_. Then, Arthur's face screwed up in a look of pain and despair, and his arm fell to his side. He turned on his heel as he fumblingly put his weapon away, exhaling shakily.

"Danse," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, you are dead. You were executed and your corpse was disintegrated. If you're ever seen again by any member of the Brotherhood of Steel, they will assume you to be an Institute spy and you will be shot on sight."

Danse bowed his head. "Sir," he acknowledged, heart still pounding.

"And as for you, Theodore." Arthur's voice hitched on the Sentinel's name, and he had to pause. "As for you, it seems the only fitting punishment is exile. You are hereby banished from the Brotherhood, your rank and title stripped, and your privileges forfeit."

"I can live with that," Davies said with a shrug.

"You can," Arthur agreed, "and you will. You will live, and you will do so in shame and disgrace. The Brotherhood will not hunt you, but nor will we help you ever again. If you are so intent on cutting us out of your comings and goings, then so, too, shall we cut away your involvement in our affairs like the malignant growth you've become."

There was a smile in Davies' voice when he responded. "Thanks, Arthur," he said.

Arthur didn't reply, didn't so much as glance back at the two of them. He simply left, without another word.

 


End file.
